


The Last Drop

by sasha_b



Series: Live By The Sword [34]
Category: King Arthur (2004), Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 18:00:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2516771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the day after Lance graduates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Drop

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to make this all happy and light, and apparently the boys wanted sex. *shrug* I gotta do what they say! This is set the day following [Those Words That Swallow This Empty Space](http://sasha-b.livejournal.com/511276.html). Feedback is love.
> 
> I am breaking with my current tradition and posting this now even though I wrote it today. I will be putting up more Sword stories over the next few weeks. Thank you to everyone that's read it so far. <3

 

  
Lance stirred and rolled over.

The sun was just coming up; he squinted against the soft light that had begun to spill through the slatted wooden blinds that covered Arthur’s windows. It was soft, but cool, and Lance could feel the chill that would be in the air through the rest of the day. He sat up and scrubbed hands through his hair and over his messy unshaven face – he felt rumpled and old and when he moved to relieve the pressure in his right hip, the _crinkle_ of the paper under his butt forced him to close his eyes and cover them with his hand.

_Just say you love me, and that’s the only thing I need._

_Of course I do. I don’t love anything else in the whole world._

Oh, Arthur.

Lance sighed and lowered his hands. His skin felt hot and swollen and he swallowed roughly, his knee twisting painfully as he rose off the bed and stumbled to the bathroom, where the faint damp feel of the air told him Arthur had already risen and showered. He relieved his bladder and then brushed his teeth, waking slowly, headache subsiding, face not so red anymore. He thought aimlessly as he brushed and then finally looked up to the mirror to greet his own gaze.

His eyes were red and tired and the bruise-like shadows under them were impressive even for his standards. He snorted and then rinsed his mouth out, the peppermint of the paste a bright and weird taste after the food he’d eaten so late. He rubbed his stomach and his head pounded once, twice, but the ache subsided and he smiled at himself, his hair crazy and –

There was a mark on his neck in the size of Arthur’s mouth, and he touched it and yeah, it hurt, but –

_Arthur touched him, over and over, his hands sliding on Lance’s skin, with love and devotion and Lance called his name, Arthur coming to him like a great winged thing, his care and concern blotting out anything that might hurt or destroy_

He returned to the bedroom and after slipping on sweats and a hooded shirt, picked up the paper with his graduation announcement on it and read it one more time.

His mouth curved at the corners as he crumpled it, and he leapt a bit as he sailed the now trash into the waste bin, his jump shot perfect and he padded down the stairs two at a time, looking for Arthur and letting the sun blind him, the direction to the balcony memorized. He didn’t need to be able to see to find Arthur.

He followed the smell of coffee and went outside, shoving the door back, leaving it open so the fall crispness could permeate the loft. The sun was up now, and its glow was hidden slightly by the huge ficus that dominated the corner of the deck. Lance sighed and stretched and crossed to the bench Arthur’d put in a while ago, the other man wearing his bathrobe (it was heavy French terry; too heavy for LA, but Arthur loved it, so Lance didn’t make too much fun) and holding a large mug of steaming coffee, his broad shoulders and back ramrod straight. His hair had started to dry to looping curls, and Lance slid the fingers of his right hand into them as he stood behind where the other man sat on the bench. He’d expected Arthur’s hair to be damp still, but it was dry, and Lance wondered with a pang in his gut just how long Arthur had been awake.

He leaned over and pressed lips to the shell of Arthur’s ear, and then dropped his mouth to Arthur’s neck and breathed in the other man’s smell. Arthur’s left hand let go of his coffee mug and rose to cup Lance’s face, the fingers warm and smelling of the beverage and Lance kissed his throat again, the join of Arthur’s neck and shoulder one of his favorite places. The bite mark on his neck throbbed as did his cock suddenly, and Lance laughed into Arthur’s skin and stepped over the back of the bench and sat next to Arthur, slinging one leg over the other man’s knees, winding their hands together, laying his head against Arthur’s.

The sun was brilliant now and moving beyond the tree, but it was definitely coming-winter cool outside and Lance shivered even as Arthur set his coffee mug down and drew him closer.

“How long you been awake?”

“A bit. You? Your hair’s already dry,” Lance answered, fingering the curls again. “Did you sleep at all?” He snuggled closer and thought of the paper he’d thrown away abruptly; was Arthur still upset about the not walking at graduation? Surely not – Lance lifted his head and put fingers under Arthur’s chin gently, the stubble scratching him, and turned Arthur’s face toward his.

“Fuck, Arthur,” he said, the words ghosting away like a leaking balloon, sad and squeaky and drifting, leaving Lance deflated, his buoyancy from the evening of good sleep and great sex fleeing with the chill air. “You have – why did you even – Jesus,” he ended helplessly. He touched the thin skin under Arthur’s eyes with a delicate finger, the burning redness and stiffness of the skin all too telling of the tears that had been there recently. Arthur was bleached white and the green of his irises was shot through with small veins, and he looked as though he’d been rubbing his face enough to scratch it.

“I slept,” Arthur answered, his voice low and ill-used.

“Arthur,” Lance countered, his own voice rising and breaking, a sharp and grinding sound caught in his throat. “Oh, my Arthur.” He shook his head and let it fall to Arthur’s shoulder, rolling his forehead over the soft fabric of Arthur’s robe. He lifted it up to look at the other man again and stood, pulling Arthur’s hand with his. “Come on.”

“I’m tired, Lance,” Arthur protested. He waved fingers at his unfinished coffee. “Just let me,” he started, but stopped when Lance bent over him and kissed him, hard. Lance slipped his free hand into Arthur’s hair, and then slid it down his neck and chest, and settled it over Arthur’s groin, the heat from the other man’s body rapidly pooling in his own. Arthur snorted in surprise but the sound turned breathy with Lance’s touch.

“Out – not out here,” Arthur murmured against Lance’s mouth, the brushing of their lips forcing Lance to sit unexpectedly, at the edge of Arthur’s knees. The cool air and warm sun – despite the chill cast it held – were a pleasant miasma of confusion to Lance’s senses and he leaned forward and kissed Arthur again, his hand still on Arthur’s robe covered cock, the other man obviously wanting him despite the early hour and Arthur’s overt sadness.

“It doesn’t matter,” Lance whispered back, and bit at Arthur’s lips. He smiled and then licked an apology over the offended body part, his hand squeezing gently at Arthur’s arousal. “No one’s outside.”

Arthur stood and dumped Lance off his lap, catching him when Lance almost fell to his knees. He lifted Lance and carried him, Lance’s feet dangling over Arthur’s and his strong grip hurt Lance’s ribs but he didn’t care; he felt Arthur almost trip over the doorframe as they reentered the loft. He kept kissing the other man, kissing him and petting his hair and then he scratched at Arthur’s nape with short nails when Arthur bit his neck again, over _that_ spot. What a fucking bruise that would be.

They hit the hard floor but Lance didn’t care, and he might have torn Arthur’s fancy robe at the shoulder when he untied it but he needed Arthur, needed him to do what Arthur was trying to do, and Lance shuddered and sobbed a breath as Arthur stripped him and had him on his face faster than Lance thought the other man could move, and after minute preparation Arthur was inside him with no almost preamble and he jerked and shouted and Arthur kept moving, covering Lance with his own large body, the robe hanging over them both, the soft material _swishing_ against Lance’s arms and legs and he bit his lip and cried out and shoved back into Arthur’s thrusts, the other man finding Lance’s cock and his calloused grip was all Lance needed and he came hard and fast, the sticky spurt of his release coating his stomach. Arthur followed him quickly, his stubble scraping Lance’s shoulder and cheek, the heat from Arthur’s completion felt oddly and deep inside him, heat from Arthur that was everything and anything and just what Lance needed to forget whatever it was he wanted to forget.

He laughed and shook and when Arthur made to pull out, Lance gripped at his forearm and pinched and Arthur stilled, holding himself up over Lance, arms trembling, the robe draping over them still. The sun was brilliant through the open door and the slatted blinds made weird patterns on their exposed skin and the hard wood floor; Lance figured he’d have bruised knees to go along with his neck.

Arthur’s sweat and his scent washed over Lance, a rolling of the other man’s musk and he laughed again and let Arthur remove himself from his body, turning with Arthur when the other man laid on the floor, his robe cushioning them.

Lance could see under the dining room table, and noticed a few scraps of foil from the tacos he’d eaten really late the previous night, and he twisted his mouth and turned into Arthur’s tight grasp. The ceiling tilted dizzily over him and he closed his eyes, smelling Arthur and letting the odor calm him, imprinting the feel of Arthur’s mouth on his forehead, the soft crush of Arthur’s arms around him, the ticking of the clock in the kitchen, the scent of coffee still warm in the pot.

“I love you,” Lance said, with strength and no tremor in his words. “That’s all that matters. Remember that. Don’t cry for me, okay?”

Arthur’s breath warmed his skin. “I love _you_. And that’s _why_ I do,” he smiled tightly when Lance met his eyes. They were still swollen and gluey looking, but not so red, and Arthur’s face had a better color to it. “I would cry and bleed and die for you.”

Lance opened his mouth but Arthur stopped it with his lips, gently this time, and Lance finally shook his head and sat up, disengaging with Arthur, his skin cool and goose bumps rising.

_I would die for you._

Never.

Lance stood shakily and found his sweats and pulled them on. He collapsed to the couch and used his shirt to clean his stomach up, tossing it to Arthur as the other man slowly rose and closed his robe. Arthur tottered outside and retrieved his coffee mug, taking it to the kitchen, and forced a snort from Lance when he realized the other man was refilling his drink.

“You need caffeine after that?”

“I am tired,” Arthur smiled wanly. He sat next to Lance on the couch. “And now I have to shower again.”

“I might join you this time.”

Arthur’s tiny smile warmed Lance’s insides, and shoved over the weird thrumming that was trying to take over his heart and gut. He wasn’t sorry about what he’d done. He’d graduated and he’d done it for Arthur and because Arthur had been willing to save him from a life of empty bullshit. He was proud of his accomplishments but only for Arthur’s sake and he knew that whatever he did from now on would be a reflection of the love he held for this man and what he’d done for Lance – his whole life, really.

Lance listened to Arthur sip his coffee and leaned his head over after a moment, laying his sweat coated forehead on Arthur’s shoulder. He felt Arthur’s lips move; the _I love you, Lance_ tripping and coating his spine, his worry aching still (but a smaller worry) and Lance lifted his head and took Arthur’s chin in his hand and pressed his mouth to the other man’s – never enough times, this feeling of Arthur’s familiar lips on his, be it a light brush or a deep hard kiss – and he tasted coffee and cinnamon and he tasted Arthur, and that was exactly what all this fucking mess had been about in the first place.

The leftover taco wrappings blew with the chilly breeze from the open door and the sound of their scraping over the wooden floor was loud and painful to Lance’s ears and he kissed Arthur again, the world never what he needed or wanted except when this man was in it with him.

He thought about his gun and his permits and his uniform and his job and the radical changes he’d made and the loss of his family and the sun sparked off the crown of Arthur’s head, the whorls of hair completely dry now. He sank fingers into the thickness and drew Arthur to him, the smell of coffee and Arthur’s deodorant filling his nostrils and

_I love you, Lance_

He smiled against their joined lips and Arthur said his name and Lance (officer Lancelot Benoit, now) closed his eyes.


End file.
